Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“Here is my dilemma, Colonel,” Stetchkin said from somewhere behind Egorshin. “You have already defied me once. You have conceded that I gave you and no one else the instruction to accommodate Zaslon Unit. You are very bright. You do not misunderstand small things. All of that militates against this being a misunderstanding. Rather, it supports the conclusion that you intentionally disregarded my instructions out of spite. Or perhaps you thought such instruction was beneath you.” Stetchkin’s voice seemed to proceed farther behind Egorshin. “Either way,” he continued, “it was another act of defiance.”

The tyrant’s voice seemed to be coming from several feet behind Egorshin, who dared not turn around for confirmation. There was a brief sound of metal against wood. Then, for several seconds, just the ticking of the clock. When Stetchkin spoke again, his voice was louder—to project from wherever he was standing. Egorshin calculated it was the archway.

“Your behavior was not mere insubordination. I gave you a clear and unequivocal instruction, which you did not simply ignore, but which you expressly disobeyed only a short time after receiving it. It was a rebuke. A slap in the face. It was defiance.”

Egorshin heard the unmistakable sound of the slide on a semiautomatic pistol being pulled back to chamber a round. The Makarov from the credenza.

Multiple thoughts ran together in Egorshin’s mind like a high-speed pileup, too many to sort out. This was lunacy. It could not be. He’d done nothing to deserve this.

Egorshin felt a vague sensation of pressure on the back of his head, anticipating the explosion of his head caused by a 9×18mm round slamming into his cranium at 1,370 feet per second, tumbling through his brain before bursting from his forehead. He became nauseous and closed his eyes, considering the sad possibility that the bile currently in his mouth would be the last thing he’d ever taste.

“Defiance is an interesting matter,” Stetchkin said, his voice drawing nearer. “It lies on a continuum of acts. Some noble, some dishonorable. Toward the dishonorable end of the scale lies disloyalty, treachery, treason. Treason, of course, is punishable by death. Do you believe your defiance was an act of treason, Egorshin?” A pause. “Speak.”

“No.”

“It might relieve you to know that I agree with you,” Stetchkin concurred. “It was not an act of treason. Although I note that your answer conceded your defiance. Therefore, you still remain in jeopardy, for there are acts of defiance below the level of treason that may still merit death. The question is whether your latest act of defiance qualifies. Do you think it qualifies?” Stetchkin pressed the muzzle of the Makarov against the base of Egorshin’s skull. “Speak.”

The noise that came from Egorshin’s mouth was thin and raspy. It only vaguely sounded like “no.”

“Tell me why your defiance does not merit death. Speak.”

“Because, respectfully, it was not a conscious act of defiance. It was not intentional. It was not disrespectful.” Egorshin swallowed. “Respectfully, it was not an act of defiance.”

“So, it was an inadvertent act that could be perceived as defiance?”

Egorshin remained silent and motionless.

“Speak,” Stetchkin commanded with a whisper and a poke of the Makarov.

“Yes.”

“Plausible. Do you know why I consider your response plausible? Speak.”

“Because I am being truthful.”

“No. I give no credence whatsoever to your veracity. Under the circumstances, I believe you would lie about your mother’s chasteness if you thought it would benefit you. No, I believe you were not defiant because you are too much of a coward to defy me. Do you know why I am certain you are a coward? Speak.”

“No.”

“Because you believe in nothing. Other than yourself and your own brilliance and superiority, of course. Since you are aware, however, of your true frailty and mortality, you are frightened. You have nothing beyond your own wretched self to provide ballast. You are empty. No true purpose. Without purpose there can be no courage. That is why you are such a coward, Egorshin. There is nothing inside.” A pause. “You may speak if you wish.”

Egorshin didn’t know what to say. He remained silent for several moments, then: “Respectfully, I am not a coward.”

Stetchkin snorted. “You are a sniveling, mewling coward. You would confess secrets to an enemy. You would retreat against an onslaught. You would beg for mercy. You would not die for a person or a cause. You are weak and worthless.” Stetchkin walked slowly back behind his desk. “Do you wish to speak? Speak.”

“Yes.”

“Speak.”

“I am not a coward. I am a true Russian. I have never failed, nor will I in the future. Respectfully, you are wrong.”

“A true Russian,” Stetchkin spat derisively. “Very nice. Are you finished? Speak.”

“Yes.”

“Then we are done here,” the tyrant said, startling Egorshin. “Remember everything I have said. You will not get another opportunity to disappoint me. Do you have anything else you wish to tell me? Speak.”

Egorshin rose to be dismissed. “I am not a coward,” he said firmly.

Stetchkin looked Egorshin up and down in disgust. “Go home and change, Colonel. It appears you have soiled yourself.”

NORTHERN GEORGIA,

AUGUST 15, 11:38 P.M. EDT

Ruth Ponder had persisted. Looking for Amos, she had ramped up her calls to the sheriff’s office from every hour on the hour to every half hour. She’d enlisted Bob Lampley to call his friends at Georgia State Patrol. She’d repeatedly called the local newspaper, local hospital, local news radio station, and investigative reporter for the local TV station.

And because of her persistence, she received the worst news of her life. A deputy sheriff who had gone to elementary school with her kids was so sorry to have to give her the news over the phone instead of in person as would be proper. But she had persisted, so he told her.

Amos’s body was among those that had been recovered in the big massacre that had been in all the news stories. Somehow, she’d already suspected as much. Forty-four years together and it was the first time she couldn’t account for Amos’s whereabouts at the same time a big massacre occurs in an area where the biggest crime story is an outbreak of mailbox vandalism. She knew it wringing her hands at the kitchen table and pacing the kitchen floor. She knew it when she kept calling Bob Lampley—heard it in his voice. He’d known Amos for more than fifty years and when he heard about the slaughter and that Amos was missing, well, in his experience, coincidences had a way of producing bad news.

Despite the distances that separated folks in this rural community, Ruth was soon standing in the kitchen with her three kids and seven grandkids. Bob Lampley and his wife were there, too. About a dozen neighbors were out on the front porch grumbling about how the country had gone to hell and nobody was doing anything about it except spending money on everything and everybody but America and Americans. Another dozen or so folks from church were scattered throughout the house, mainly in the living room, ready to cook, clean, and console as needed. Already, enough food for two or three large Thanksgiving dinners had appeared and was scattered on every available space atop Ruth’s furniture.

A reporter from Atlanta had shown up and was quickly surrounded by a cordon of Ruth’s friends and neighbors determined not to let the muckraker exploit the tragedy just to sell some more advertising space. Besides, it seemed whenever reporters from the big papers or TV stations did any kind of story about folks like Ruth and Amos, they made them look like backward and ignorant hayseeds, usually made fun of them even when the subject was a sad one. And with all the church folk in and around the house, several carrying family Bibles and a few wearing crucifixes, they’d no doubt be portrayed as intolerant ignoramuses and bigots. Nope, this wasn’t an occasion for confirming stereotypes and prejudices for smug big-city folks.